


Sun, Rum and Gunpowder

by Izzy_Grinch



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Calico talks too much, Cockblocking, Drunk Sex, Drunken Flirting, Hangover, Humor, Jealous Charles Vane, Lazy Mornings, Love/Hate, M/M, Morning After, Swearing, Threesome, and Edward has no idea what exactly that bastard says, being naked, feeling sick but kinda satisfied, no description of sex i'm sry, waking up together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 12:19:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15291390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch
Summary: A successful hunt for loads of Spanish doubloons ends with loads of drinking, and in the morning Edward Kenway finds himself dragged into a dalliance with the most unexpected people ever.





	Sun, Rum and Gunpowder

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Солнце, ром и порох](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15291243) by [Izzy_Grinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch). 



> The canon speaks for itself:  
>  
> 
> Jack: “Oy! Why the long face? You falling in love?”  
> Edward: “With your blouse.”  
> [both chuckle]
> 
> Anne to Edward: “Aw, you’re a hard heart that should be softer.”  
> Jack: “Or soft in parts that should be hard!”  
> Anne: “And how is it you’re so keen for his hard parts, Mr. Rackham?”
> 
> * _Solon_ who Jack mentions/quotes in the text was a Greek poet and a lawman with a very strong opinion against being deadly drunk :D

Edward woke up in a bed which certainly wasn’t his own. The place was too quiet to be a brothel or the _Jackdaw_ captain’s cabin, and too heavy was the smell of sweat and moldy damp sheets instead of the soap used for washing in Inagua estate. He also remembered − pretty clearly − that he came ashore in Nassau.

The balcony door was wide opened; the curtains waved slowly, almost to the rhythm of his thoughts; and there was also a dressing table in a corner with a cracked mirror and piles of books and jewelry − no human being had so many fingers to put it all on. Outside in the street someone started to puke frantically, right under the window, and so Edward dolefully tried to decide which side of the bed would be better to lean over to satisfy his own needs too, when all of a sudden a hand wearing bracelets and golden rings flopped on his stomach, fumbled blindly over the floor unable to reach it, and then a weak voice demanded:

“Bloody hell... just give me something!”

A morning with a horrific hangover, which made the head thump as if the Spaniards, those ones they stole a galleon yesterday from, full of goodies, were dancing pasodoble all night long on it, was terrible enough itself, and nothing could be worse. Nothing but a morning with horrifically hangover Jack Rackham. That’s almost exactly what Edward told him:

“Calico?!”

With a great effort Jack, all naked and sticky, managed to roll over him, chains with trinkets, plaques and pendants − quite a bunch to lash a fucking cannon − digging into Edward’s chest; after four or five attempts he finally snatched a bottle, almost empty, and drawn it to himself like a rope during a storm − if you’re not holding it tight you’d be swept away in a wink of an eye.

“Yeah, well... I assume ‘ _Calico?!_ ’ is way better than _‘Wait, are these tits, Jim?!’_ ”

“...what?”

However, Jack was already drinking, and so the question lost somewhere among his gulps, loud as if of pigswill spilling into a dry echoing well. For a minute he watched the bottle with a hollow or philosophical − it was really hard to tell − expression, then he tossed it into the sheets carelessly, placed his cheek in a palm and said:

“That old bastard Solon has never been so right, oh yes.”

Edward didn’t even try to specify who the hell Solon was, under whose command he sailed or whether he was a former slave and what exactly he was right about; instead he tried − successfully − to sit properly, while Jack continued, and his voice was full of either wisdom of thousand ancient elders or highly spiritual sorrow for all the alcohol bibbed the evening before.

“Drunkenness is madness for it deprives us of all our abilities.”

It’s said people were damned to be tortured forever in Hell, and you didn’t even need to try hard to get there, just steal and kill. But what on Earth had he done to deserve Jack Rackham to be a smartass around him while both of them were still alive? Grumbling, Edward put this into one short question, addressed to himself rather than Jack:

“...how much did I load up yesterday?”

“Enough to sink like a brick,” Jack reported surely, and Edward turned back to look at him.

Calico’s forehead scarf slipped down over his left eye, and upon realizing it he started to untangle his gaudy beaded treads from the hair; the kohl was thickly spread and smeared under the right eye; one earring dropped on a pillow; and the face apart from signs of forever-lasting booze-up, recent scuffle with someone and gray stubble − Edward scratched his own − had the most peaceful expression ever. Their eyes met.

“So... how was I?”

Calico shrugged unconcernedly.

“Well, you were.”

On a nearby carved table, obviously swiped from some noble bigwig’s frigate, there were vessels of glistening dark glass, and Edward approached barefooted to pick the biggest one and a couple of cups of different sets; heaps of pricey shite with a claim for beauty, dumped together clumsily − that’s truly Jack Rackham himself. While he was coursing through the room the sunlight from a doorway touched his skin pleasantly, as the wickedest of the smiles touched Jack’s lips, and maybe Edward should had wrapped himself in something, but he was shameless, and Jack was, well, definitely not a royalty at the audience in Westminster Abbey, or a governor’s daughter or whoever the heck else. Edward tossed at him a wilted mango, which he took on the way back from a fruit vase to fill their stomachs with, and somehow Jack failed to catch it.

“Why among all the people−” Edward begun, pouring brandy into the cups and onto the blanket when Calico stuck his little finger out, fooling around. “How−” he complained, choking on the nasty French slop. “Why−” he asked the ceiling, throwing his head back to not tear up of the drink’s potency.

“’Cause _‘Uh-hu, Jack, such a nice vest you have here... And now what is this? Alligator_ _skin_ _insets?_ _My,_ _my!_ _Want me to bring you a crocodile from Tulum, eh, Jack?’_ And who knows, weren’t you such a flattering apologist when you’re loaded to the very gunwale, that’d turned out differently.”

He made a tiny sip, as if it was some kind of evening tea, and closed his eyes for a second, showing how much he’s content with himself. Edward sullenly asked:

“Such a _what_ now?”

Calico looked at him with an obvious amusement.

“Meanwhile, I do hope the buttons on my vest − where’s it by the way? − are intact, they’re made of a whale’s bone, just so you know. Also, you can keep Tulum,” he waved at the balcony as if the place was ten feet away, and Edward even seemed to spot something moving behind the curtains. “I am so disgustingly rich now that I can harness all the crocodiles of Mexico to the _Ranger_ , and even while it would be an absolutely pointless act, a pretty hedonistic though, it is still, if you don’t mind, a comparison rhetorical enough to complete the picture.”

“Do you even listen to yourself, eh?”

Jack already managed to fish a pipe from under the bed and puffed at it, and then he exhaled the smoke away from Edward’s face.

“Listening to myself is one of the greatest pleasures I have at my disposal. Aside from the other ones, of course, just as natural.”

He put the pipe’s lip into his mouth with a motion so simple and ingenuous that it seemed his words and actions were not connected at any point, but oh, they were, they really were, and Edward felt a slight tension in his crotch. He realized he was staring and smiled crookedly. Jack realized it too. He still had the overripe mango at his side, and that was actually the proper moment to dig the fingers in it, to rive it apart roughly, so the juice would leak down the wrists and make the hungry guts tighten inside− However, aiming to shift his weight so his pose would be more delightful to watch, Jack propped his keen elbow on it and crushed it.

Edward sighed. He moved to take what’s left, and fell on his back, quite surprised, when Jack’s hand lay under his collarbones and pushed him insistently. Calico slapped his bent knee a little so that Edward straightened it, pressed his palm to Edward’s thigh and caressed it all the way up, and then he leant closer to his face. He smelled of strong tobacco, and the smoke was still coming out of his nostrils. A chair squeaked at the balcony, and someone cursed.

“You two. Grab your shit and get the fuck outta here.”

For Edward, spreading out on the sheets, the view of the room, the low ceiling and very ominous Charles Vane was upside down and rather comical than menacing. However, Charles Vane wasn’t about to laugh − but to try his fists right away. Rackham took his time to sit on his heels.

“Oy, but this is my room too.”

“I said, get the fuck out.”

A pair of trousers with a belt and a heavy buckle with a fake ruby landed on Calico’s head painfully, as far as Edward could tell by the sound. Vane gave Edward a ferocious look, and so he nodded peacefully and started to search for his clothes. Jack was swearing eagerly somewhere behind him:

“Rat’s arse, the hell my boots’re dangling like sails in bow wind?”

“Because these are my fucking boots, you idiot,” Vane snapped. “Pathetic tosspots. You–” he spit on the floor, glaring at Edward again, “couldn’t get hard at all, and you–” Vane gave a clout on Jack’s head while he tried to slip by, “complained you want your own ship. Not shutting up even for a second. Even with your damn mouth full.”

“Well, I have a very agile tongue!”

“Then use it to row the hell away from here!”

Edward chuckled quietly, tightening the gun sling, and Vane snarled at him:

“Having fun, Kenway?”

“Nah. Just had a thought,” he smiled radiantly, “maybe that’s not us who were sauced, but you who wasn’t able to handle two at a time?”

Charles Vane grabbed his scruff with his dry and veiny hand − Edward had remembered this tough clutch from the night before − threw him away and slammed a door as loud as if firing from dozen cannons one inch away from his ears. With a groan Jack snuggled to the wall and dragged himself to the stairs, and Edward had no choice but to offer him a shoulder to lean on so Calico could walk down. It was hot afternoon outside; some dusty chickens scampered between their feet.

“Heartless moron... Hey, Edward, is that position of quartermaster of yours is still vacant?” Calico narrowed his eyes at sun irritatedly, and in a sly manner at Edward.

“Rackham, moron!” They turned around not too coherently; Charles Vane was eyeing them disparagingly, staying on the balcony. “Bring your ass here. Now.”

Almost instantly Jack gave Edward a playful bow as gracefully as he could at the moment, and stumbled back to the building. Edward stretched. He felt tired and very famished, but a mainmast of the Spanish ship, fat like a prize pig, was rising over the roofs, and so Edward saluted to winced Vane and headed down the street.


End file.
